


cat got your tongue?

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Sakusa takes in a stray cat, thanks to my cat for being my muse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25927678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Kiyoomi takes a stray cat home and Miya Atsumu follows.(a.k.a: No, he doesn't take the cat home because it reminds him of Atsumu. He doesn't.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 563





	cat got your tongue?

**Author's Note:**

> mentions of cat vomit + there's a scene dealing w/ a cat scratch

The first thing he notices about the cat is that it’s filthy. Second, is that it’s missing multiple whiskers. 

Third, is the fact that the cat has been following him back to his flat for exactly two streets, has not paid any attention to Kiyoomi’s pointed glare telling it to scram, and purrs softly as it catches up to rub itself against the legs of his sweatpants. 

For a minute he looks around, maybe the cat had an owner who accidentally let it outside; maybe they’re desperately searching for it right at that moment, worried sick that their cat must’ve fallen into a heap of trash because that’s currently what it smells like—a dumpster. 

He scans the empty street, disappointed that no one is coming to save him from the high-pitched meows and claws that begin clinging to the fabric of his pants, getting the scent of whatever atrocities are found in garbage cans and what lurks in its grimy fur.

The stray is probably getting a kick out of it. 

Kiyoomi tries walking around the cat to get by and fails. It whines, gives him it’s own glare back, somehow says to him “oh shaddup, ya know you like it,” and continues rudely shedding on his clothing. His sweatpants are going through at least two washes when he gets home—possibly three; the cat has now left a clump of dirt on the right leg. 

Now, his only option is this: nudge at the cat until it moves away from him completely and realizes that Kiyoomi is not, in fact, a weak man that falls to charm that easily. 

Especially not from a muddy-yellow, stray, tabby cat with half its whiskers gone and who knows what plethora of diseases felines carry—it could be carrying the plague and he’s spent his life specifically avoiding the plague. Today will not be the day he comes down with it all because of a cat. 

If the stray switched from a glare to giving him loving eyes that beg him to take it home, that is simply not his problem. 

A nudge later and he’s speed-walking away, leaving the cat to trail in the dust and mewl after him like Kiyoomi had just committed a crime. 

  
  
  


*

He can think of a single thing more annoying than the thought of owning a pet and that is Miya Atsumu, who is poking at his arm through his shirt and making sure to avoid any contact with his bare skin, which doesn’t actually do shit.

The heat of his fingers spreads easily through his thin, Dri-Fit undershirt and Kiyoomi has to stand there and act like he’s annoyed and not like he wants him to do it again. And again. 

“Come with me, Omi-kun,” Atsumu whines. Kiyoomi watches as his expression morphs into the one he gives when he’s trying to convince someone to buy him dinner. Wide-eyed and feigning innocence, the devil incarnate himself. 

That look always makes Kiyoomi want to kick him. Or kiss him. 

He can never decide so he’ll wait for whatever he has to do first. Not that he’s looking forward to either of the options; that’s just what they happen to be, unfortunately for him. Right now, he’s leaning towards the kick. 

For now, he opts to stare blankly, definitely not zoning into how his hair is actually decently toned for once and swept back into an actually flattering haircut—must’ve found a new hairdresser, Kiyoomi thinks, good for him. 

It takes him a full minute to grasp what’s happening. Practice has just ended and Miya Atsumu is painted a flushed-red—from the receiving drills or embarrassment, he can’t really say—and asking him out to dinner in the locker room like it’s the most natural thing to do. 

“I’ll even pay for your meal!” Atsumu says with a quick look to his left that he has recognized a tick for when he’s absolutely bullshitting. 

A look to the left on the court, watch out for that nasty setter’s dump coming up. A look to the left while offering to buy a teammate dinner, Kiyoomi will end up paying for his own dinner and Atsumu’s included.

It _has_ happened before. 

Atsumu had easily coerced Bokuto into having dinner with him after practice a month back, only to realize he had “forgotten” his wallet three-fourths into the meal. The group chat he hardly checks had pinged with a notification that night and he clicked it when he saw Bokuto complaining: _don’t go to dinner with Tsum-Tsum...he WILL make you pay!_

It never fails to amaze him how he’s managed to develop a _fondness_ —or if he’s speaking in juvenile terms, then, sure, a crush—on a man who won’t even pay for his dinner. 

“No, you won’t.” He replies while turning away to finish packing his gear bag, only halfway forgetting Atsumu’s hand is still on his sleeve like he’s got a claw stuck in it and can’t pull it off. 

Kiyoomi has said nothing about it yet. 

“Okay, yeah I probably won’t,” he says. 

At least he’s honest about it, Kiyoomi almost smiles when he turns to him, rolls his eyes and is grateful for his mask that hides the slight upward turn of his lips. 

“But we gotta bond sometimes, Omi-Omi!” His hand is dangerously close to making contact with his deltoid so Kiyoomi does what comes naturally to him, steps away from the touch, and shoots him an irritated glare. 

“We bond nearly every day, Miya.” Kiyoomi wishes he was lying, but he’s been stuck with Atsumu for nearing a year under MSBY Black Jackals now and well, yeah. He gets his fill of the setter’s grin and endless remarks about his wrists every single day minus Sundays. Thank god for Sundays. 

“Omi–”

“No, absolutely not.” 

  
  


*

  
  


On the walk home, Kiyoomi least expects to hear a familiar needy meow, but he does. At first, it’s a distant noise. The more he walks the closer it gets and soon the stray tabby cat is popping out from a dim alleyway, tilting its head up at him with wide-eyed, dirtier than before. 

It looks so innocent for something so filled with evil, Kiyoomi thinks, debating on whether or not to take an alternate route away from the cat and onto safer grounds where no felines are plotting against him. 

He doesn’t get the chance to reroute; the cat has already snuggled up on his sneakers and begins playing with his shoelaces. It takes one in its mouth, bites and pulls at it until it comes undone. Then moves on to the other, until both of his shoes are an untied mess and he’s staring in horror as it paws at them like its very own cat toys. 

The cat seems to sense his discomfort and moves away from shoes, this time it sits down next to him. No longer brushing against him but still looking at him with gleaming, hopeful eyes. 

If he squints, the cat could be cute. 

Besides the layer of cobwebs it had collected sometime between their first encounter and today, the peek of golden-yellow fur has the potential to be a nice coat for a stray. Its eyes are deep brown, intense, and persuading, and for a split second, Kiyoomi wants to take it home. 

Only for a second. 

Before it meows again and snaps him out of whatever haze he was in that made him want to take a stray alley cat—covered in the entire west-side of Osaka—home with him. A professional volleyball player only has so much time on his hands, and that time should not consist of being responsible for a cat that imposed itself in his life. He simply doesn’t have the energy. 

But when he goes to nudge at the cat, and it stares back at him sadly, he doesn’t _know_ why it makes his chest fucking _ache._ Kiyoomi goes to tie his shoes, tries to ignore the hair that’s on them. 

And oh, it still follows him happily with its tail perked high in the air like Kiyoomi hasn’t just pushed it away seconds earlier. 

You will not get the better of me, he thinks, focusing ahead of him on anything other than the cat who swishes its tail like it's the happiest it’ll ever be around Kiyoomi. Just because he’s letting it walk beside him, even though it’s against his will. Even though the cat has to know that he will push him away once he gets home. 

The cat continues to follow. And follow until— 

In about five minutes he’s reached the flat and the cat seats itself near his legs again, giving him an amused look. What’cha gonna do now, Kiyoomi? It asks with the further tilt of its head. Not take you home, he tries convincing himself, definitely not that. 

Sure about that? The cat mocks him with a long meow. 

_I’m going to do something stupid and it will make me miserable_ , he sighs, digging into his gear bag to pull out a Ziploc bag filled with disposable medical gloves. 

“You can stay _one_ night,” Kiyoomi says to it, lips forming a deep scowl when it just meows tauntingly back. 

Its eyes glow menacingly as if saying, Yeah, _right_. Like it knows Sakusa Kiyoomi is incapable of ever leaving anything he begins half-finished—including raising a stray cat. 

  
  


*

  
  


Kiyoomi regrets it instantly. 

He should’ve known that nothing comes easy and it’s way too easy how the cat lets itself sit calmly in his medical-grade gloved hands and he thinks it might’ve smiled—

Just as it vomits up a fur-ball all over the rubber. Of fucking course. 

  
  


*

  
  


Atsumu doesn’t give a _shit_ about his crisis, which he saw coming the moment he impulsively tapped on his name in his contact list. 

Evidently, the thought of Kiyoomi suffering brings him an immense amount of joy because he won’t stop fucking laughing through the line. 

“You’re pushing it right now, Miya,” he says, pouring the devil-spawn its third cup of milk into a cracked bowl he found in the back of his cupboard because he refuses to use one of his perfectly spotless bowls on a demon. 

“Fuck, _sorry_ ,” Atsumu wheezes _._

Kiyoomi considers just hanging up. He could call Osamu, except he doesn’t have his number. It’s a damn shame, he thinks—Osamu would not laugh at him, fix the whole cat situation, _and_ pay for Kiyoomi’s dinner. It’d make a whole lot more sense if he liked Osamu. 

He isn’t sure what possessed him to call in the first place, maybe the cat _has_ given him the plague. Maybe the symptoms are not thinking before calling Miya Atsumu at midnight for advice on dealing with said cat. 

“You’re not _,_ ” if he has to listen to another minute of Atsumu trying to catch his breath while the demon in his house meows at maximum frequency, he will go insane. 

It’s midnight and Kiyoomi is positive he won’t make it to tomorrow. After he managed to not hurl the cat towards Tokyo after it vomited on him, he set it down onto the tile floor of the kitchen floor and told it to stay, or else. 

And he promptly scrubbed his skin bare of any cat hair, along with the dirt that had snuck its way onto him along the process—tried not thinking about the mess he got himself into and how just outside the door, two rooms away, a dirty stray cat is waiting to ruin his life. 

When he did end up peeking into the kitchen, the stray was _screaming_. Not the usual meow, no—it sounds like a mix between a hyena and a banshee, whichever is more disturbing. And it hasn't stopped. Not even when he offers it milk; it stops for approximately the minute it takes to lap up the bowl, and then continues to screech. 

Atsumu’s laughter fades. “It’s just–you–a stray cat? _Really_?” 

He has now moved to lock himself in his bedroom, but the cat finishes the bowl and claws at his door. 

“Thought you were smarter than that, Omi-Omi.” 

“It wouldn’t leave me alone.” Maybe, _maybe_ the demon reminded me of a certain setter, he doesn’t say. There’s another laugh across the line. 

“Sure Omi, but why'd you go and call me?” Atsumu asks, rightfully so. 

Kiyoomi would also like to know. 

There is no rational reason he should be calling him for anything, let alone asking him for cat advice. The internet exists; it could’ve been so simple had he not thought of the one time six months ago when Atsumu talks about a dog he had growing up. 

“You know I don’t have any cats, don’t even think my place allows them.” 

“You had a dog,” he says flatly. 

“Nuh-uh,” Kiyoomi feels like burning up; Atsumu is probably ecstatic on the other end hearing the cat terrorize him, “‘Samu had a dog.”

“Same thing,” he replies. The cat gets impossibly louder. I’ve lost it, Kiyoomi thinks bitterly, officially lost my mind. 

Another giggle through the line and Atsumu says, “Nah, he did all the hard parts, I just took it for walks sometimes.” 

“Fine, I’m hanging up.” 

“Wait, no, hold on–” he says quickly, “–wouldja just, gimme a minute.” Panicked, almost. Kiyoomi gives him a minute, or two; he somehow always ends up holding on when it comes to him. 

“Pet Paradise!” Kiyoomi can visualize the lightbulb that goes off in his head, but also, he has no idea what he’s talking about. 

“Miya, what the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Shinsaibashi-suji, there’s a pet store there.” He continues, “remember ‘Samu saying it’s good for pet supplies.”

Kiyoomi thinks the cat stops meowing before it starts up again. “Okay, I’ll check it out.” There’s a long pause through the line and he waits for Atsumu to say something but nothing comes. 

He should really hang up, should really kick the cat out of his house—forget it ever existed and take the long way home from now on. And ignore the existence of Miya Atsumu for the rest of his life. 

Atsumu eventually breaks the silence, “I can go with you.” When Kiyoomi says nothing, he keeps going. “To the pet store, I mean, if you want.” 

Why would he want that? What exactly would that achieve other than two clueless people who have no idea how to care for cats walking around in confusion? Kiyoomi says yes anyway. 

“Tomorrow.” Sunday; they don’t have practice. “Meet me there at noon.” 

“It’s a date then, Omi-Omi.” 

Kiyoomi hangs up immediately, dismisses the pounding in his chest, and falls asleep to the sound of scratches against wood and the drowned out sound of cat-whines. 

  
  


*

  
  


As it turns out, Atsumu had done his research and was already standing in front of the two-story store by the time he arrived. 

Whatever Atsumu says, going to a pet store to buy supplies for a filthy stray _isn’t_ a date—despite the fact that he wants it to be—so he had just put on a black tracksuit, had to go through it four times with his lint-roller because the cat wouldn’t stop shedding all over him in the morning. 

The black shirt and jeans combo Atsumu wears isn’t spectacular in the slightest; it’s technically plain for him. Still, Kiyoomi thinks it’s criminal how good he looks leaning against the side of the store-front as he does absolutely nothing, just furrows his eyebrows and focuses as he scans the paper in his hand. 

He comes up to him, abruptly asks, “what’s that?” 

Atsumu startles and turns to him. “Sheesh, hello to you too.” Kiyoomi hums in response and stares at the paper in his hands to avoid looking at anything else like his incredibly defined muscles in his incredibly tight shirt. 

From what he can see it’s a list compiled with brand pet food names and supplies. He can make out the “Sheba cat food” and “Inaba tuna fillets” hastily jotted down. “I just looked some stuff up,” Kiyoomi notices his face getting red. 

“Asked ‘Samu for some advice this morning.” 

“Thank you,” and Kiyoomi is, he had fallen asleep before he could do any research himself. 

“Uh-huh–just–wouldn’t want you gettin’ the wrong stuff for it.”

Atsumu tilts his head away from him; it’s enough for him to catch the red on his ears. He says nothing else, neither does Kiyoomi as he follows him into the shop. 

  
  


*

  
  


The shop is huge, is his first thought. The second is why would anyone want to dress their pets? Instead of pet supplies, the span of the first floor is dedicated to animal clothing. All the walls are covered in arrangements of costume sets and onesies and even shoes. There’s a Superman costume meant for dogs, a red ladybug onesie for cats, even multi-colored vests for lizards. 

If Kiyoomi takes a moment to browse, that is simply out of curiosity and not because he thinks the idea is of any use. It’s impractical, to say the least. If Kiyoomi spots a bee onesie the next second and calls Atsumu over to grab it off the rack, all the while receiving an incredulous stare, then it’s simply because he likes being humored. 

“Why the fuck does your cat need a _bee onesie_?” 

“The cat is pretty ugly,” he points to the onesie. “That’ll make it cuter.” 

  
  


*

  
  


Somewhere halfway through the shopping session, Atsumu begins going over his research. 

How to care for a cat according to Miya Atsumu: 

  1. Feed it twice a day with proper nutrients, like, amino acids or some shit. (I’m unaware what brand _some shit_ is, Miya)
  2. Water it daily. (Miya, it’s not a plant. I know that’s hard for you to understand.)
  3. Do not, _do not_ give it more than a few ounces of milk. (Why’d ya give it three bowls? Are you tryin’ to kill it, huh? Omi-kun?)
  4. Do its hair. (Is it a boy or girl, Omi? Why don’t you know? Hey these ribbons are cute.) 
  5. Hah, you’re gonna love this one; _keep its litter box clean._



He continues listing things after that, but he blanks out after the mention of _litter._ There comes a brief understanding of what it means to have your life flash before your eyes because no, the thought of a cat needing a litter box hadn’t occurred to him yet. 

Where had the cat relieved itself? Had he somehow missed the smell of cat piss this morning when he was cleaning? Did he close his bedroom door? 

Oh god, the cat will be the death of him. Nevermind the cute onesie or whatever ribbons Atsumu had tossed in the cart. 

Atsumu heads into the litter aisle, bending down to eye the array of litter options. “Lavender or–” he glances back down between the two in his hands, “–cotton breeze.” 

He’s unable to answer, too busy thinking about the cat that is likely running rampant all over his flat, how he’s going to come home to everything covered in filth and cat-piss that resembles the color of Atsumu’s hair circa high school. He watches bleakly as Atsumu throws the cotton breeze inside their cart. 

“Fine then, _don’t_ answer.” Atsumu purses his lips and heads into the next aisle muttering something along the lines of “ya like cotton breeze, always sprayin’ that borin’ smell all over in the locker rooms.” 

  
  
  


*

  
  


Atsumu ends up paying for all of the supplies, which surprises him. The blonde had done all of the shopping, being the one to reach for things off the shelves so Kiyoomi didn’t have to bother fishing for his gloves. It’s extremely considerate and Kiyoomi is extremely caught off guard. 

He could thank him again. But he doesn’t. “So you'll pay for all my cat supplies but not for dinner?” 

“Hey! I woulda paid for you if you'd let me.” Kiyoomi turns his heels towards the exit, ignores the way Atsumu’s voice softens. 

  
  
  


*

  
  


“She’s pretty fuckin’ ugly,” is a pretty tame statement in comparison to the numerous adjectives for the world filthy he first thought when he saw the cat. “Thought you were kiddin’ honestly.” 

Atsumu stands awkwardly at his doorway where the cat had come to greet them. And who is this? The cat meows and looks up at Kiyoomi expectantly. Thankfully, his place is not falling apart and the cat hasn't peed anywhere. 

“Cat, meet Miya.” He stands at the doorway in place, not entering, peering curiously at the cat prancing around the kitchen tiles. 

“You can come in.” 

He gets a stare from the setter like he’s grown a third head. Maybe he has. Even the cat stops moving around to watch as Atsumu stands by the door, unmoving. So, you’re gonna let someone else in, Kiyoomi? There’s the head tilt. 

“You sure?” Atsumu’s voice is small. Hopeful. 

Kiyoomi _isn’t_ sure. 

But it’s been eleven months of harboring this weird, fucked up, vision of Atsumu sitting at his kitchen table and sipping the peppermint tea he always keeps stocked or sitting on his couch watching a pointless movie while he makes fun of the actors on screen—giving him one of those bright side-smiles he gets on the court when he scores. 

Like this is his home and Kiyoomi lets it be. 

“Yes, just–” he grabs a container of citrus-scented wipes from inside a cupboard and tosses it to him “–your shoes, wipe them down.”

He catches the container and gives him a smile that has sunlight flooding into his home. 

  
  


*

  
  


Do not bathe a cat. This should be self-evident. 

But when Atsumu suggests it, it makes total, complete sense. Kiyoomi had just finished a long tirade about the dirt the cat had brought in, shooting her his meanest look while she sucks up to Atsumu who is now fully inside his kitchen. 

He’s careful not to lean or touch anything and Kiyoomi isn’t sure how to tell him that it would be fine, actually, he would _like_ for Atsumu to lean against his kitchen counter. 

“Why don’t we just take her a bath or somethin’?” He says, cringing when the cat leaves dust and fur on his jeans. Kiyoomi starts a bath ten minutes later and Atsumu follows with the cat curled into his arms, unsuspecting of the trauma she will be put through. 

Oh, this is such a horrible idea, he thinks not _once_. 

  
  


*

  
  


Miya Atsumu is not the genius he thinks he is; it’s another self-evident truth Kiyoomi has known since he first caught a glimpse of his shitty haircut and during their first year of high school at a camp he doesn’t remember. 

If proof is needed, though, the current scene coming live from his bathroom would be enough: a wet cat currently hanging from his shower curtain, a pool of cloudy water gathering on the floor, and a bleeding Atsumu sitting on a shower tool he had pulled up; miserable. 

“Yeah, so.” He still looks attractive with a line of blood running from the bottom of his eye to the middle of his cheek. Kiyoomi despises him a little for it. “That was a terrible idea.” 

“No shit, Miya.” 

That cat yowls at them, eyes murderous, turning her eyes to and from both of them accusingly like they’ve betrayed her. The first step of recovering from the disaster is getting her off the curtain, so he takes his gloved hands and pulls her off as gently as possible. “Don’t you dare lay a single claw on me.” 

Next is getting a mop and cleaning the floor. He nudges Atsumu with it, signaling for him to get up. “I’ll fix your stupid face in a second.”

“Was the stupid necessary, Omi-kun? I’m injured! My face is ruined!” 

“Whose idea was it to take the cat a bath? And you still look good, it’s fine.”

“You went along with it, ya ass! Wait what–” He cries out, shaking the water that made its way into his hair out next to him so the water droplets go flying in the air. Kiyoomi flinches back and glares at him, points a finger to the door, and Atsumu pouts his way out. 

“Sometimes you’re worse than the fucking cat.” 

“And you still put up with me!”

  
  


*

  
  


“Ow, fuck.” 

Atsumu leans against his kitchen counter now. It’s not in the scenario he had in mind, but it’s not terrible either. 

Cat had targeted him with a great amount of precision, not a single part of the scratch was jagged, just a clean slice of red. It’s sort of admirable. Kiyoomi peers at the cat that settles an inch from him, damp and frazzled and glaring at Atsumu who glares back. The entire thing is ridiculous; Atsumu’s pout has deepened and he’s having a staring competition with his cat.

It’s something out of a fever dream—he’s never had one where the blonde has a nasty scratch down his left cheek caused by them forcing a disgruntled cat into a bathtub, but he’ll take it. Other than the fact that he’s bleeding and a few drops have made their way onto the indigo rubber covering his hands, it could be significantly worse. 

For one, he could _not_ be leaning against Kiyoomi’s kitchen counter at all, which he supposes would be the worst possible scenario. 

There’s a brief moment where he feels like it’s all wrong; he should be feeling sick to his stomach, should be shoving his first aid kit into Atsumu’s hands and letting him clean himself up, and should be slamming the front door on his face after. 

But the feeling never comes.

His blood is a really, really bright red is all he thinks as he pulls the gauze out of the plastic box sitting on the counter and begins to apply pressure—skips easing into it and presses the fabric firmly in place. Can someone bleed prettily? 

“Could you be _any gentler_?” Atsumu complains, voice getting higher as Kiyoomi adds to the pressure. 

He can feel his cheek move as he talks, can watch closely as the vivid-pink line of his lips continue their downwards curve. A frown meant for Kiyoomi and the cat. Is dressing a bloody wound the right time to kiss someone? 

“If you keep moving, I’m going to pour hydrogen peroxide on it.” 

“Fuckin’ rude–” he can hear Atsumu’s breath hitch as he presses the gauze down with a bit more intensity and runs his gloved-thumb over the thin cotton. 

And oh, _oh_. There’s a slight shudder when he ups the press again; the heat of his red-tinted cheeks melts through the glove and Kiyoomi can feel it clearly. This is Atsumu’s skin. And it’s addicting, Kiyoomi thinks as he’s completely still under his fingers, still frowning down at the cat. 

Probably not the right time to kiss him. 

“Deal with it, Miya.” 

“I always do.” 

So do I, Kiyoomi doesn’t say.

  
  


*

  
  


“So, we shouldn’t try puttin’ the onesie on her right?” Atsumu asks. He gingerly touches the bandage on his cheek, and Kiyoomi watches him mindlessly, the wet cat next to him. 

“You can go ahead and try. I’m not helping you, though.” The cat meows sweetly and makes her way to Atsumu’s feet, giving him a look that could almost be an apology. 

Kiyoomi thinks the cat isn’t so bad. He too, has the nonsensical urge to bare his claws at his skin and kiss it better afterward. 

“You just want me to get scratched again.” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

  
  


*

  
  


“Tsumu-san, what happened to your face?” Hinata asks Atsumu who looks two seconds away from a meltdown about having to be in public with a bandage across his face. They’re at practice, the day after the cat-in-the-bath debacle. 

“Got inna fight, won of course,” Atsumu’s jaw clenches, holding in the impending gloomy mood he gets in when something doesn’t go his way. Kiyoomi sometimes thinks he’s as bad as Atsumu.

“A cat beat him up.” He just can’t help it. 

“Oh, fuck you, Omi-Omi!” Kiyoomi smiles behind his mask as the setter’s face burns up. 

  
  


*

  
  


The strange cohabitation isn’t as bad as he expected and besides kicking up crystals of litter every time she uses her litter box, the cat is fairly clean. He’s even adjusted to leaving his bedroom door open when he heads to sleep, or else she’ll wail well into the night. 

But if he knew that his new life with his new cat would consist of Atsumu coming home with him every other day after practice, he’s unsure if he would’ve taken the stray home sooner or later. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t know when Atsumu had begun following him, all he knows is that one day when he heads out of the locker room, he hears Atsumu next to him complaining about the smell of his cotton-breeze spray.

Like it’s the most natural thing to do.

“Hate that smell, god, would it kill ya to try somethin’ more adventurous?” Kiyoomi says nothing as Atsumu walks beside him—closer than he normally would ever be—and discusses the various smells that would suit him instead. 

Citrus, apparently, smells better on him than the cotton. 

Sometimes he brings cat treats or catnip or a cat toy he saw walking past Shinsaibashi. Sometimes he brings nothing, just waits outside the door as Kiyoomi grabs the lemon-scented wipes. 

“I’m trying to win her over,” he says every time. 

He spends most of his time sitting crossed-legged on Kiyoomi’s kitchen floor, playing with whatever toy he has brought. A small red laser, a mouse plush, or the cat’s favorite—a makeshift toy made from one of Kiyoomi’s spare shoelaces tied to a ladle from his kitchen that he was initially against. 

“I think she likes me now, Omi-Omi!” Atsumu yawns, leaning against the front of his couch. A Friday after an especially draining practice, he sits on the carpet of his living room, cat nestled into his lap, asleep. 

Seeming to have heard him, the cat perks up and jumps, softly lands on the couch next to him instead and hisses at Atsumu. 

“Fuckin’ nevermind then.”

Kiyoomi sits on the couch thinking, _I like you so much more than this cat ever will_. 

  
  


*

  
  


Atsumu shows up to his house on a Sunday, which shouldn’t be that surprising considering his frequent visits, but it is. All the previous times had been a few hours after practice, not on their day off. He stands at his front door, looking uncharacteristically sheepish, holding a plastic jar of Umeboshi with an _Onigiri Miya_ label slapped on it on one hand and a giant bag of cat kibble on the other. 

“Why are you here? It’s Sunday,” Kiyoomi asks. 

“Uh, do you want me to leave?” 

Kiyoomi is sure that he doesn't want Atsumu to leave. “No, not really. You can come in.” 

He tosses the wipes at him, fully aware that his hands are occupied, and watches as his eyes widen at the throw—Kiyoomi spends a minute at the doorway bent over laughing as Atsumu dumps the contents in his hands to catch them. 

  
  


*

  
  


It’s Sunday and Miya Atsumu is in the corner of his kitchen pouring kibble into his cat’s food bowl ranting about Osaka’s humidity. His hair is unkempt and he runs his hands through it without washing them after having dealt with the cat food. 

And Kiyoomi thinks he might kick him. 

“By the way, I keep comin’ over for your cat, not you. I’ve invested too much on her, it’s joint-custody.” He takes a quick look to his left. 

Kiyoomi is fond of a liar; this is how he’s going down. Not the plague, not felines plotting against him, but Miya Atsumu in his kitchen lying through his teeth.

“That’s a lie and you know it, Miya.” 

It’s Sunday and Atsumu is in his kitchen, wide-eyed, head tilted slightly, staring at him like he’s got a point to prove, snarls as he says, “Fine it’s a lie. I’m here ‘cause I _like_ you, asshole.” It goes quiet after that, the only sound being the cat purring and crunching her food. 

What’cha gonna do about it, Kiyoomi? Huh, cat got your tongue? 

Contrary to his belief that he saw himself kicking Atsumu well before he ever saw himself doing this, the shock on his face makes up for it either way. Because he stands there so innocently evil, waiting for him to do something. Kick him or kiss him. 

Atsumu is leaning against his counter again, elbows propped up on it, making the most ridiculous expression he has ever seen as Kiyoomi tilts forwards and doesn’t kick him, instead, presses his lips to his— breath hitching not because of a bleeding cat scratch, but his ungloved hand meeting the warmth of his cheek. Applying pressure not to clean up a wound, but because he simply wants to feel. 

And oh, _oh_. This, this, _this_ is Atsumu’s skin. 

It’s warm; his lips are even warmer, smiling against him, pulling him back into another and another and another. It’s so easy, so natural, how Atsumu’s hands move to the sleeves of his shirt, move under them, trace circles into his skin as he makes soft sounds into his mouth. 

It takes a no-longer-filthy, no-longer-a-stray cat coming up between their legs, letting out a shriek, for them to pull apart. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck_ I don’t even _like_ cats, Omi, you’re the worst. I like you so much, this the _worst_.” His hands are still under his sleeves, clutching tightly at his arms, and Kiyoomi thinks it might be a little more than a juvenile crush as he ignores the cat; opts to gently kiss the fading scratch on his left cheek. 

The cat shrieks again in betrayal and Kiyoomi can’t stop smiling. 

  
  


*

  
  


“By the way, what’cha gonna name her?” 

Miya Atsumu is on his couch, watching shitty reruns of an outdated drama playing on television. 

And at this very moment, Kiyoomi thinks: Atsumu curled into his couch like he owns it, with a tabby cat cuddled into his lap, sunlight filtering on his even-toned golden hair through his squeaky-clean blinds, looking so impossibly golden and near; this is why he feels the way he does. 

The way he has felt since he first walked into practice a year ago and Atsumu is grinning at him—snarky and sure, as he always is—eyes asking, “so you gonna let me in anytime soon?” 

So close all the time that all he has to do is reach back, open the door, and let the sun shine through.

“Tsumu.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“It’s ugly and has a rotten personality–” the cat looks up at him from Atsumu’s lap affectionately, “–but she likes me so it’s fine.”

“Ya don’t mean that ugly part, Omi!” 

“No, I don’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> in a way this fic is half inspired by my experiences with cats and also lovely [fanart](https://twitter.com/letsgoseijoh/status/1289370864882868224) by [letsgoseijoh](https://twitter.com/letsgoseijoh) on twt!


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